


Heartbeats and Footfalls

by alex_caligari



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Orpheus and Eurydice, The secret language of flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_caligari/pseuds/alex_caligari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing was ever final, nothing was impossible. With enough planning, guile, wits, and deception, one could accomplish anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeats and Footfalls

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme prompt: a take on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Unbetaed and unbritpicked. I realized afterwards that the layout of both the inside of the Tube train and 221B are skewed somewhat, but blame it on ~magic~.

_They took him from me._

It was the only thought Sherlock had as he stared out the window. _They took John._

The ricin had taken three days to kill him, but neither of them knew he had been poisoned until 18 hours before the end. The death itself was five days ago. Sherlock had barely moved since then. People thought he was grieving, that he needed time on his own to come to terms with the loss. But they were wrong. Sherlock wasn’t grieving.

He was planning.

He had spent an entire night scouring over all his textbooks and research. He was looking for the loophole, because nothing was ever final, nothing was impossible. With enough planning, guile, wits, and deception, one could accomplish anything. Mycroft taught him that.

He found it at four in the morning, an obscure reference that was little more than a meeting point and a warning, but it was just what he needed. There wasn’t much to prepare, and by morning Sherlock was standing outside Blackfriars Tube station with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure how he was going to reach his goal, but there were worse things than wandering around a Tube station for a few hours.

He needn’t have worried, of course, because he had a clear purpose in mind and there were People watching. As he descended the stairs towards the platform he noticed that all the people he passed were headed in the opposite direction. There were ten more steps than there should have been. The background noise quieted until Sherlock was alone on the platform, every little noise echoing back to him. It was clear he was somewhere new.

He breathed deep and tried to bring his excitement under control. _It had worked!_ He could change things after all. He smiled, although he thought there was no one there to see it. A few of the People smiled in return.

He waited fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of a train approaching, the displaced air blowing back his hair and ruffling his coat. The train itself looked much abused when it came to a stop in front of him, as if it had never been allowed to stop for repairs. The doors hissed open and Sherlock hesitated only a second before stepping onboard.

The carriage was empty save for a sickeningly ordinary looking man reading a newspaper. “I think you are on the wrong train, my son,” he said without looking up.

“As far as I know, this train has only one destination,” Sherlock replied, “which happens to be the same place I want to go.”

The man rustled his paper and said nothing.

“I can pay my way,” Sherlock said. He gripped the coins tightly in his pocket. Two of them, one for each eye.

“Can you now?” the man said. He folded his paper neatly and looked at Sherlock for the first time. “And how can you be sure of that?”

Sherlock frowned. “I have nothing else to give.”

The man smiled. It was a disconcerting sight. “And you brought that rucksack along to collect souvenirs, right?”

Sherlock slid the bag off his shoulder. “You want the violin?”

“Heavens no!” the man exclaimed. “A silent instrument is a mere corpse, without soul or purpose. My business is not with corpses, my boy. Play.” He unfolded the newspaper and waited.

Sherlock carefully took the violin out of the bag. He had left the case at home to save space, and had wrapped it in cloth instead. He stood with it tucked under his chin for a moment, wondering what on earth to play for a man like this.

Inspiration struck, and he smiled as he played the first few jagged notes. The newspaper twitched as he repeated the notes, then launched into the ludicrous and teeth-achingly familiar string section of the piece. Sherlock concentrated solely on the music, letting the bow skitter over the strings. The man wanted to see his soul, and he let it show like the brilliant, mad thing it was. The music was completely inappropriate to the mood in the train, but fitted the situation. After all, Sherlock was not the first to have made this journey.

The piece was short, and Sherlock ended it with an indulgent flourish. He dropped his arms to his sides, holding the violin and bow loosely. He waited for judgement.

The newspaper twitched, flapped, and finally folded over. “It is not often that I am graced with Offenbach in the morning, but I will take what I can get. The payment is accepted. Please sit down,” he said in a manner eerily reminiscent of Mycroft.

Sherlock quickly wrapped his violin back into the bag and sat down eight seats away from the man, who was back to reading his paper and ignoring him. There wasn’t any signal that Sherlock could see, but the train slowly pulled away from the platform and dived into the darkness.

They travelled underground the whole way, not once passing another platform or emerging aboveground. The lights in the train dimmed, and the man said nothing. He acted like he had forgotten Sherlock even existed. Sherlock returned the favour. He was thinking about what was coming next. He’d survived on his wits and cunning before, quite well, but he never had to rely on his art, his soul, as it were. He may have to re-evaluate his plan.

The train rocked to a stop, and the man vaguely gestured as the doors hissed open. Sherlock picked up his bag and considered thanking the man. The newspaper remained firmly in place in front of him, so Sherlock said nothing as he stepped on to the empty platform. It was bereft of the usual signs of human usage; no rubbish, no adverts, and no noise. It was uncanny. Sherlock was more relieved than he cared to admit to see the only set of stairs was going upwards, rather than down. He glanced up to check if there was a Dante-esque warning above them, but was saved the theatrics. He resettled the bag on his shoulder and started to climb.

As he went, the stairs and walls started to appear more ornate and luxuriant. The colours changed to red and gold, very artfully done. The railing under his hand changed to delicate ironwork, and the steps became pale marble, worn smooth from constant use. Sherlock approved; it was the sort of setting he would have chosen.

The stairs came out not to sunlight, but to a hedge maze. The sky was replaced with darkness that lacked stars. It was unclear where the source of light was coming from, as there were no torches or lamps. Instead the environment appeared to ooze light. There was a sensation of a vast ceiling, miles above and stretching for millennia. The effect should have been humbling. It impressed Sherlock, certainly, but did not humble him.

“Am I supposed to charm my way through here, too?” he asked the empty air. He figured by now that there would be someone paying attention, but he didn’t know the nature of the People who watched him. His only response was a rustling of leaves.

Sherlock examined the maze. It was boxwood, pruned ruler-straight, and eight feet high. The walls were dense and springy when he pushed against them. To the left and right it extended to the horizon, if a true horizon existed in this place. It reminded Sherlock of a film John once watched, with an ever-changing maze filled with allies, enemies, and riddles. Sherlock doubted that a pop star waited for him at the end, though. He took three steps into the maze before a soft creaking made him look back. The branches came together and closed up behind him as neatly as a wound. “No going back, then,” Sherlock muttered. “Suits me.” He started walking.

The maze turned left and right, forked and crossed, and Sherlock was completely lost. He knew how to get back from where he came, but had no indication how to go forward. He didn’t know how long he walked; both watch and mobile had frozen at the time he stepped on to the train, 8:04. He was considering pulling out the violin and playing some Verdi when he turned a corner and found a meadow.

The moss he had been walking on was replaced with short thick grass, and Sherlock could see the hedge enclosing the meadow on the far side. But what drew his attention the most was the campground set up in the middle. Huge canvas tents had flags flying in a breeze that couldn’t be felt, and people milled around in groups. It all looked quite ordinary.

Sherlock walked towards them and had to call out to get someone’s attention. A woman stopped and asked, “Who are you?” She was dressed plainly, a few decades out of fashion and looked about thirty. In her hand was a pail of water, and a white flower was in her hair.

“I’m looking for a friend,” he said. “Do you know where I go to ask about him?”

The woman frowned. “No,” she said. “I don’t know anything about this place. I just drink and work and wake the next morning to drink and work again.” She raised the pail slightly. “Would you like a drink? It’s very refreshing.” She held out a small tin cup to him.

Sherlock was suddenly parched. He hadn’t felt fatigued from walking, but right now the thought of sitting down and waiting here seemed like a very good idea. Nothing had ever looked as inviting as the clear water sitting in the dented cup. He leaned forward greedily, and began to reach forward towards it.

The woman stumbled, one knee buckling, and the water slipped from the cup. It startled Sherlock enough for him to straighten up, and in doing so, he caught the gaze of the woman. There was a remarkable dullness to her eyes that Sherlock had not seen on a living person before. He gazed around the campground again, now knowing what to look for. The white flowers bedecked all the tents. All of the people had the same gait, purposeless and slow, and several carried pails. Their eyes were blank.

The woman was talking again. “What about your dog?”

“My what?” Sherlock asked, turning. There was nothing behind him, but whereas the moss had hidden his footprints, the grass showed them clearly as he crossed the meadow. Beside them was a set of large paw prints. He spun, looking for the beast, but saw nothing. “What did it look like?” he asked the woman.

She shrugged. “Dunno. Big, I guess. It was behind me.” She lifted the cup from the pail to her lips and drank from it. “Sorry, who are you?”

 Sherlock felt it was time to leave. It would not do to forget his purpose now. He turned away before addressing the woman, still standing there. “John would want to make sure you were happy here. I can see that you’re not happy, but at least you’re not miserable.”

He walked around the edge of the camp, keeping close to the hedge until he found another opening. Behind him the paw prints followed, although there was still no sign of the creature.

The maze enclosed him once more. It was starting to become dull. Miles and eons of perfectly trimmed boxwood, turning this way and that, without any logic dictating it. It was as mind numbing as the meadow he had left. Sherlock was sure he had walked for days. He was ready to start ripping through the hedge with his bare hands when he turned a corner and faced another fork in the path. This one, at least, was different from the others.

The right hand path looked much the same as the rest of it, but the left hand path looked scorched and barren. The boxwood was nothing more than densely packed twigs and the moss had turned to ash. It was desolate, horrifying, and _interesting._ Sherlock took a step towards it when something brushed past his leg. Sherlock turned, and turned again, but there was nothing.

Except that was wrong, because standing at the entrance to the left hand path was an enormous dog. It was so black that its features blended into each other until it was little more than a dog-shaped hole in reality. It growled at Sherlock, who noted that it had three shadows.

“I wouldn’t go that way if I were you,” a voice said. Again, Sherlock turned (and turned and turned), until he found its source. A man stood leaning against the thick boxwood beside the dog. His appearance was similar to Sherlock; tall and thin with light eyes, but his hair was the colour of lamb’s wool. He was dressed like a dandy. A mischievous smile lurked on his lips. “You don’t belong in that place,” he continued.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked.

Instead of answering, the man said, “Did the man on the train give you his name?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “but I have a fairly accurate idea who he is.”

The man nodded. “He’s not one for conversation, that one. Well, if he’s not going to give you his real name, then neither will I. You can call me Mr Babel.” The man did a sweeping bow and extended his hand. Sherlock could see a tattoo of a pair of wings on his wrist as his sleeve lifted.

Sherlock shook his hand and introduced himself. “I’m sure you already know why I’m here,” he added.

Mr Babel grinned and idly stroked the dog next to him. “Yes. Our People have been watching you very closely. We might have lost you to the meadow, had it not been for old Ceb here.” His grin fell and his expression turned hard. ““Do not eat or drink anything anyone offers you, ever. This is very important. I should have intervened before you found the damned pail-carriers, but you work a little faster than the others did. How do you like it, by the way?” His mood switched, fittingly mercurial.

“I could do without all the theatrics,” he replied, gesturing to the hedges. “What’s past there?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t like it,” Mr Babel said. “Endlessly repetitive, always spinning your wheels, and there’s never enough to eat.” He smiled at a private joke, then frowned again. “But really, you don’t belong there. It’s not for the likes of you.”

“So where do I belong?”

Mr Babel laughed. “And there we have the right question! You, my dear, belong with me.” He turned to the dog. “Ceb, go on ahead and tell the boss we’re coming.” He eyed Sherlock’s bag. “And say that we’re bringing a little gift as well.” The dog made a horrendous noise that might have been a bark and ran off.

Mr Babel held out his arm to Sherlock. “I will lead you from now on. We don’t want you wandering into another dangerous situation.” Sherlock paused at Mr Babel’s offered arm, but conceded to take it. A guide was too valuable to quibble about over-familiar contact. They walked down the right hand path.

As they went, both men were busy. Mr Babel at talking, and Sherlock observing. “I’m so glad that I got you,” Mr Babel said. “It was quite a fight. My sister was adamant that she be your patron, intellect and justice and all that, and my other sister said that _she_ should be your patron because, as she put it, ‘he’s quite the hunter.’ I think it had more to do with the fact that you’re both such workaholics that you never get any action. But like I told Father, he should be mine because of the cunning and the wit. And the thievery. That’s very important. My siblings always get the best ones anyways. You can’t take two steps without running into one of their favoured. There’s that rude bloke you help, and that friend you’re looking for, of course. I feel I deserve a few for myself. Father always did like me best; I’m not stuck up like my brother. He’s still sore because I kept stealing his things when I was younger.” And so on.

Sherlock was trying to learn something about Mr Babel. Anything. It was the same with the man on the train. Nothing could be deduced from them. They were blank slates. As soon as Sherlock extracted a fact about Mr Babel ( _recent travel judging from the clothes; strong hands, likely an athlete; wristwatch says experience in commerce_ ), something new would appear to contradict it. It was beautiful.

Gradually the path widened, and more branched off. The maze became a road, and more people appeared on it. Sherlock left off analyzing Mr Babel to watch these newcomers. Most were ordinary human beings, easy to read and therefore not a challenge. Others were like Mr Babel, with Sherlock’s prying eyes sliding off them without his permission. Mr Babel noticed Sherlock’s attention and began naming them in his enthusiastic way. Of course, he didn’t use anyone’s real names, making it difficult to determine who everyone really was.

“Those are the triplets, Ladies Oblivion, Obsolete, and Obstinate. That man there with the jar of flies is Mr Lebub, he’s a bit of an ambassador. The veiled woman is Ms Kindly. She and her sisters act as security here. Here’s the Duke of Somnus; don’t touch the poppies if you know what’s good for you.”

“As interesting as all this is,” Sherlock said, “I would rather find John and leave this place.”

Mr Babel looked at him. “My dear, you may only be able to do one or the other,” he said gently. He ran a hand through his white hair. “Alright. You are a determined one; that’s why I picked you. Up to the manor, then. Onward!” He set a brisk pace and Sherlock followed. He was glad to be away from the crowds of strange and impenetrable beings.

They walked towards a gravelled path, and before them stood a regal country manor house. Mr Babel went straight up to the door and knocked. It opened a crack and someone on the other side spoke quietly to him. After a short exchange Mr Babel returned to Sherlock and said, “You can go in now. I’ve brought you as far as I can; the rest is up to you.”

“You can’t help me persuade him?”

Mr Babel grinned. “Love, I’ve only helped you this far because I like you. That’s what you do for a favoured. Himself in there,” Mr Babel jerked his thumbed towards the manor, “he isn’t anybody’s patron. Thinks it would make him weak or something. No, love, this is your challenge.” He looked at Sherlock fondly. He chucked him under the chin and said, “Make it count, kid.” Sherlock could only nod. Mr Babel walked away down the gravelled path.

Sherlock watched him disappear. It was quite possibly one of the oddest encounters he ever had. He hoped he would meet him again. It wasn’t every day that you found out that you were the favoured of a trickster god.

He faced the door, took a steadying breath, and pushed it open.

The interior was as posh as the exterior. Rich wood floors and thick oriental carpets spread underfoot, and the eyes of portraits and hunting trophies watched Sherlock walk down the hall. There was no one to escort him. Sherlock noticed that despite all the trappings of a country manor, there was nothing to deduce about the occupants. A worn spot on the carpet meant nothing; a scratch on the baseboard drew a blank. He wasn’t surprised. He pushed on a door that was slightly ajar and stepped into a sitting room. His gaze swept over the entire room and found it empty, then looked again. He was learning these People’s methods.

He wasn’t alone the second time he looked. A well-dressed man stood leaning on the mantle holding a brandy glass that contained something that definitely wasn’t brandy, and an elegant woman in late nineteenth century period dress was sitting on the settee. “Welcome, Mr Holmes,” she said, rising. “It’s not often we get visitors of your kind here, so please, make yourself comfortable.” She approached him, and Sherlock caught the scent of wildflowers, likely from the large vase of white asphodels in the corner. “You may call me Lady Grey,” she said. “This is for you.”

She pressed something into Sherlock’s hand. It was a bundle of flowers, like a large boutonniere. Blue forget-me-nots and white pear blossoms were the dominant blooms, offset with a small orange marigold in the middle and a single delicate snowdrop at the back. The bundle was tied securely together with a piece of ivy.

“Thank you,” he said. The significance of it escaped him, but he knew that it was very important. He slipped it into his pocket and looked up to find that the Lady was still standing very close to him. She had the kindest eyes Sherlock had ever seen on a woman. The asphodel scent was strong but not unpleasant. Sherlock’s mind stalled, and he didn’t like that these People could confound him so easily.

The man finally spoke. “My dear, I do believe you are making the poor boy uncomfortable.” He smiled tenderly at her, then spoke to Sherlock. “You have not come here on an idle whim.”

“No, I haven’t,” he said as Lady Grey returned to her seat. She began separating whitecedar branches into smaller bundles beside her. “I’ve come to retrieve my friend.”

The man smiled. “One does not undertake such a journey lightly. You know that I am reluctant to lose any of my subjects.”

Sherlock was treading dangerous ground. “Lord Grey,” he said, and the man’s eyebrow quirked at the name, “John was taken unnaturally. I don’t think he should have died. It’s too soon; he still has a purpose in life to fulfill. The world still needs him.”

Lord Grey’s eyes softened. They were extraordinarily similar to his wife’s. “My son, if the world still needed him, then he wouldn’t have died. His purpose is done.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps you’re right. The world doesn’t need him. But I do.”

Lord Grey glanced at his wife, who smiled. “I was told you would be bearing a gift,” he said. “Show me.”

Sherlock sensed he had scored a point, and pulled out the violin. Lord Grey scoffed. “That’s it? Nothing but wood and veneer. If that’s the best you can do, I am surprised you made it this far.”

“Give the boy a chance,” Lady Grey said.

Sherlock tucked the instrument under his chin. He had been thinking on what to play for a long time, and knew that he wouldn’t get away with the trick he did on the train twice. This needed to be special. Unique. It needed to be for John.

He put the bow to the strings and pulled a long, low note from them. Lord Grey’s attention shifted from his pocket watch to Sherlock, who noticed but remained concentrated on the violin.

It was a simple beginning, a single chord made of short skipping notes repeated over and over, with occasional snippets of new notes breaking the pattern. Sherlock gradually pitched it down, until the violin was growling with impatience. The notes grew louder, sharper, crying out to be released from the monotony, until they were suddenly silenced at their climax. Sherlock began a new section. This time the notes were light and soft, and a trifle hesitant, as if they were afraid to escape the safety of the strings. Sherlock added the original chord underneath, and rather than the jagged impatience of before, it strengthened the new sound. The refrain was somewhat discordant at first, and went through several variations before a sudden flourish straightened them out and created a new harmony.

The harmony combined the best of both chords, the sharpness of one with the lightness of the other. At times one sound or the other would dominate, but would be quickly corrected. The music was rich and galloping, full of heartbeats and footfalls. It was the sound of life. It was Sherlock’s soul.

It abruptly screeched and fell apart, falling through the notes until it hit bottom. It quieted down after that. Slow notes emerged from silence and took on the shape of the original chord. They dripped from the strings with nothing to support or harmonize them. The chord wasn’t growling like before, but plodded along heavily. Slowly, so slowly that it was easy to miss it beginning, there was a hint of the second chord. An echo of heartbeat and footfalls. A possibility of the sounds of life resuming.

Sherlock dropped his arms, exhausted.

Lord Grey was staring at him, looking a little stunned. Lady Grey had raised a hand to her face. She glanced at her husband. “Such a gift I have not received in a long time,” he said. He cleared his throat. “But a gift it is, not payment.”

Sherlock felt his stomach drop, but nodded in acknowledgement. “Like I told your man on the train, I am willing to pay.”

Lord Grey sighed. “They all are. A soul is not a trinket to be traded freely and without consequence. You understand this.” Sherlock nodded. “What are you willing to sacrifice in payment for your friend?”

“Myself,” Sherlock said. It was another thing he had thought about for a long time.

Lord Grey blinked. Sherlock took a small pleasure in surprising someone like him. “It is an equal exchange,” Sherlock continued. “One soul for another. You would lose nothing.”

Lord and Lady exchanged a glance again. They seemed to have a silent conversation between them. He frowned and she smiled back. She looked more sympathetic to Sherlock’s mission than Lord Grey, and he hoped that she could convince her husband.

Lord Grey rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. He will be summoned.” He snapped his fingers, but nothing happened that Sherlock could see. “Your gift has gone a long way towards your payment. I will not be requiring your soul in exchange.”

Sherlock’s breath caught. He was getting John. He was coming back with him.

“But,” Lord Grey continued, “that is not to say that the payment has been wiped out completely. I will give you the soul if you give me your sight.”

“My sight?” Sherlock blanched. His sight was his work. He would be nothing without it. _Nonsense,_ he scolded himself. If he was willing to give his soul for John, then he was certainly willing to give his sight. He would simply find a way to work without it. “Of course,” he said.

“My dear, you misunderstand,” Lady Grey said. “My husband does like a bit of drama.” She glared at him. “He does not mean your literal sight. His payment is your will to resist temptation. He does not want you to see your friend’s soul until you are both out of his realm and safe in your own.”

“If you break this, there will be no going back,” Lord Grey warned. “He will be mine.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, of course,” he said. He decided to take a chance. “One last request. When I succeed with this task, I ask that you do not take him from me prematurely again. He gets to choose his time.”

Lord Grey laughed. “You _are_ good. I agree. I wouldn’t want to upset you enough to get you down here twice. My ridiculous nephew would never let me hear the end of it.”

“Keep the flower bundle safe,” Lade Grey said, “and you will be offered the same grace as your John.”

That was unexpected. “Thank you, my Lady,” he said sincerely.

Lord Grey glanced at his pocket watch again. “Your payment starts now, and will not be paid in full until you are both within your place of dwelling. Understand? Good.” He glanced up at the door behind Sherlock. “Ah. What perfect timing you have.”

Sherlock hated him. It was sudden and visceral and obscene, because he knew exactly what Lord Grey had done. He wouldn’t be allowed even a glimpse of John until they left this place. How would he know he was there? If he was alright? It didn’t matter in the next moment because he heard a voice that he hadn’t heard for five days, when it was struggling for breath between seizures.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

It froze him, but only for a second. He turned slightly, in order for his smirk to be visible in profile. He was careful to keep his eyes on Lord Grey. “Hello, John. Doing well?”

“Not bad. Took you long enough to get here, though.”

“It’s rather difficult to gain access to the underworld these days, even for me.” He heard John’s soft huff of laughter. Lady Grey rose and walked out of Sherlock’s line of vision, a plaited bundle of whitecedar branches in her hand. There was a muted conversation behind him, ending with John’s “Oh. Right then.”

“I assume you know the agreement now?” Sherlock asked once Lady Grey returned to stand in front of him. He saw that she no longer had the whitecedar bundle.

“Um, yes,” John said. “Although it doesn’t make much sense.”

“I don’t think these People follow the same logic that we do.” He glanced at Lord Grey. “May we be off now?”

Lord Grey nodded, waving a hand at him. “Go. I’ll be watching closely to see how this turns out. My nephew will show you the easy way out.”

“Good luck, my dear,” Lady Grey said. She stepped forward to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek. It was cold.

Sherlock left the manor after that, making sure to walk in a wide circle around John. Mr Babel was waiting outside and lit up when he saw Sherlock.

“I knew you’d do it,” he said. “My favoured never fail. And this must be the soul you were looking for.” Mr Babel looked over Sherlock’s shoulder appraisingly. “You do pick good companions, my boy. It’s a wonder that it took so long for one of us to notice him. Another hidden gem snapped up by my siblings. Ah, well.”

“We were told that you’d lead us out,” Sherlock said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”

Mr Babel turned serious. “Of course. Right this way, gentlemen.” He turned on his heel and walked down the gravelled path. Sherlock followed him, and presumably, John followed Sherlock. They came to the square, as busy as before, and went down a narrow path almost overgrown by the hedges. “Shortcut,” Mr Babel explained. “It’ll get us to the train station faster than Lady Obstinate can weave.”

They were silent as they walked in single file. The moss muffled their steps, and Sherlock focused on listening for John’s footsteps. They were irritatingly quiet. Mr Babel was as good as his word when they went through a door and stood on the concrete of the otherworldly Tube station. It felt like only five minutes had passed.

“Chuck will be here shortly,” Mr Babel said. He appeared nervous. “He’ll take you as close to home as possible. But remember, People are watching.” He looked between Sherlock and John. “Best wishes, love,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me.” He threw his arms around Sherlock and hugged him tight. Sherlock hadn’t expected that and didn’t have time to react before Mr Babel had released him and dashed back through the door.

“He was interesting,” John said, after a moment.

“My patron, apparently,” Sherlock said.

He could hear John’s grin when he said, “That explains a lot.”

The sounds of the approaching train prevented further discussion. The man inside was still reading the paper, and lowered it as Sherlock stepped on. He turned towards the doors as John got on, and said, “You headed home?”

“I hope so,” Sherlock heard John reply.

Again, Sherlock moved so that John could always stand behind him, and took a seat. John sat behind him. For the sound of it he was a least one seat down. The train pulled away from the platform.

“What was the payment?” John asked. “That woman just said that you wouldn’t be able to look at me.”

“It was my ability to resist temptation,” Sherlock said.

“Hmm. Not your strongest suit.”

Sherlock smiled. “No, I suppose not. That is likely the point.” They didn’t speak for the rest of the trip. Sherlock was busy thinking of all the ways this could wrong and how to counteract them. The task seemed simple, but he knew that there was always a catch. Something would happen that would try to make him lose. Sherlock had played games like that before. He knew how to win.

The train slowed to a stop. Sherlock was up and moving through the doors before they were fully opened. He didn’t acknowledge the man, but John mumbled a thanks. The doors hissed closed behind them and the train left. The platform was empty, spotless, and unfamiliar. “John?” he said.

“I’m here.”

“Let’s go home.”

“Best plan I’ve heard all day.”

They climbed up the stairs and stood on the pavement. The unfamiliar platform resolved itself back into the Blackfriars station. Night had fallen on London, and a rare clear sky allowed the stars to shine. The streets were as empty and quiet as the Tube station they had left. Sherlock’s watch was still stuck at 8:04. Lord Grey’s influence had a far reach, it would seem.

Sherlock could imagine John’s reaction. He would take in the street first, verifying where he was, then look up at the sky. He recalled the lightless ceiling of the labyrinth and wondered if John had missed the stars. He listened to his feet on the pavement as he looked around, heard his deep breath of air and the almost-sigh as it was released. John’s feet stilled in a way that meant he was waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. Sherlock pulled out his gloves, mindful of the small flower bundle in his pocket, and adjusted the cloth bag on his shoulder. Before John could ask about it, he set off.

They walked single file through empty streets. Sherlock chose his route carefully, still expecting a trap. But it appeared that Lord Grey wanted him to succeed as much as he did. There were no vehicles to pose a threat, no people to jar and distract him, no large reflective surfaces to trick him. Nonetheless, Sherlock was alert to the danger, and the situation was not conducive to conversation.

But damn it, why did John have to be so _silent?_ His footsteps were like an echo of Sherlock’s, barely there and half heard. An auditory illusion. He shouldn’t worry; John always followed him closely, he could keep up. It would be fine.

Besides, Sherlock would be aware of him no matter how silent he was. John was inquisitive, and it was distracting. Sherlock could practically feel that inquisitiveness, John’s need to categorize and analyze, the doctor in him needing to open up a problem and examine it before it could be fully understood. It was a steady grinding that pressed at the back of Sherlock’s head and right now, he needed to _concentrate._

“I can hear you thinking,” he said, after ten minutes.

“Sorry about that,” John said behind him. Sherlock knew he wasn’t. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Tell me about it,” Sherlock said. John was surprised; he could hear it in his faltered step. “I mean that literally, not in the rhetorical sense. What was it like there?”

A pause. His head would be canted upwards and to the right, trying to find the most accurate words to describe it. “You would never be bored,” he said finally.

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t ask any more about it. A puzzle was dull if you knew the ending. “I met Harry,” he said instead. “At the funeral.”

“Oh?” John sounded intrigued. Whether it was at Sherlock meeting his sister or going to his funeral, Sherlock wasn’t sure. “How did that go?”

“About as well as you would expect,” Sherlock replied. “She asked me what the hell her brother was doing running around with a standoffish ponce like me. Her words.”

John snorted. “Sounds like her. What did you say?”

“I told her that I haven’t the foggiest idea, but at least I was good for half the rent.” Sherlock smiled, turning slightly to let it be reflected in a passing window. Another huff from John. It wasn’t a lie, exactly; that _was_ what he had said to Harry. But it wasn’t exactly the truth, either, and they both knew it. “I think she realized that I was being facetious, though, and asked what I was doing letting you continue your association with me even after realizing the dangers we faced. Not her words.”

“Clearly,” John said. “Can’t stop a Watson from sticking their oar in, that’s for sure.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock echoed. He waited.

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were indispensible to my work. That you helped me think, and kept me focused, or distracted, if the situation called for it. That you sometimes could get information that I couldn’t, because of your knowledge, or experience, or your way of dealing with people. And simply because I liked having you around.”

John would duck his head against the compliment; shrug it off his shoulders like he did with so many of Sherlock’s other, less kind but no less truthful, remarks. He knew that Sherlock liked telling the truth, except when it was about Sherlock himself. John would run it over his teeth and roll it between his fingers to see what the hidden meaning was. How it was meant to manipulate.

Sherlock interrupted John’s mental grinding. “Even after all that, she still wouldn’t let me have your skull.”

A startled laugh. “Oh God, you would, too,” John said. “I’m surprised you didn’t do a bit of grave robbing later.” He was fighting back a fuller laugh when Sherlock interrupted that, too.

“You were cremated,” he said.

“Oh.” A pause. “Who-” He stopped.

The question of ashes hung in the air, soon joined by other inquiries. Who was there? ( _Everyone._ ) Did you speak? ( _No._ ) What happened after? ( _Life was boring again._ ) Did you catch the killers we were after? ( _Lestrade found them; they’re incarcerated._ ) And my killers? ( _I found them; they’re gone._ ) John’s questioning mind ground them down like a millstone. But if he didn’t ask, Sherlock wasn’t going to answer. Easier to answer a question John wouldn’t even have thought to ask.

“They gave you a military send-off, but kept it low key,” he said. “Tasteful. I think Harry arranged that. Knew you wouldn’t want a lot of pomp.”

“Good,” John said, sounding a bit distracted.

In fact, Harry had received the ashes. Sherlock supposed that many people thought that he would claim them; perhaps he should have. But cold ashes were of little comfort, serving instead as a reminder of his failure to protect John from everybody else’s madness.

John cleared his throat. “So, what’s in the bag?”

“My violin,” he answered. “It’s amazing what those People will accept as payment.” He waited for John to puzzle it out, no longer distracted by the inquisitiveness but relishing it. “In other words, I bought you for a song.”

A sound that was not a laugh, but similar, a hum. Of approval? “You’re completely mad,” John said.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “What sane man would venture where I have and return with his prize?” He instantly wished to take the words back. They had been light, bantering words, with a patina of meaninglessness. Their conversations often worked like that, and they still managed to understand each other, most of the time. But a small, unguarded statement had opened a crack, one that John would not hesitate in examining and stitching up.

They walked, and the silence stretched behind them like shadows.

“Why did you come for me?” John finally asked.

“I told you, you are indispensible.”

“To your work, though, you said.”

“And my work is my life. Simple.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

They walked, and the darkness wrapped around them like wings.

Eventually they were one street away from home, and Sherlock knew that it could not be this simple. Surely, a last trick of Lord Grey waited for him, for having such hubris to think that he could bring back the dead. His eyes darted everywhere, looking for figures he couldn’t read, ready to protect his prize. It was slowly flaying his nerves apart.

There. The dark door with the brass numbers shining even in this dim light. Home. Refuge. Sanctuary. “See it, John?” he babbled. “It feels like far too long since I’ve been here. I don’t even know how we’ll explain you coming back, but I bet Lord Grey has a trick up his sleeve about that. It’ll be like this last week never happened.”

“Yeah,” John said quietly, “I see it.”

Sherlock wanted to dash ahead and sweep open the door. The flat needed to be filled with light, heat, noise, all the things it had lacked in the past week. The stock of edible items in the fridge was probably suffering, too. So many things needed to be looked after, now that the flat had two occupants again.

He controlled himself. He measured out his steps to ensure that John was exactly one metre behind him and no further; he made his path obvious and without sudden turns. They crossed the street with Sherlock obsessively watching for traffic. They passed the sandwich shop. Sherlock climbed the steps and stood facing the door. He felt his keys in his pocket. It was a heady rush, like coming home after running down a lead. The keys shook in his hand, making them jingle ever so softly. Unlock the door. Open it. Push it wide. Step over the threshold. He was safe. But John had to be there as well. Sherlock walked forward until he was two metres away from the door, more than enough room for John. He allowed time for one breath, then turned.

Three things happened in very quick succession.

The first thing that happened was that Sherlock saw that John wasn’t inside the doorway. He was standing on the step, dressed as Sherlock had seen him countless times before, nondescript, practical, neat, with that black jacket he favoured so much. Not the horrid hospital gown in which he had died. His hand was raised as if he was pushing against an invisible wall. He frowned, then looked up at Sherlock with a mixture of disbelief and resignation.

The second thing was that dawn broke. There was no gradual increase of light, just blinding sunbeams piecing through haze and reflecting off buildings as time caught up with itself. It dazzled Sherlock, and he almost missed the last thing that happened.

John smiled.

It was a familiar smile, the way all of John’s smiles were. Sherlock had catalogued them all so it was easier to know when to laugh and when to apologize. This one was very rare, but Sherlock knew it. It said _it was fun_ and _it was scary_ and _I wouldn’t have missed this for anything_ and _don’t think you can get away with that again_ and _you mad idiot_ and _can’t wait for the next time._

It said _I forgive you, all this, everything, it’s all fine._

It said _thanks for trying_ and _meet you later._

The sun shifted at the right angle to send light directly into Sherlock’s eyes. He blinked and shielded them with his hand. Too late. John was gone. Sherlock was left standing alone at an open door bathed in sunlight.

Events happened in a rather convoluted manner after that.

Sherlock felt dizzy, he was—

 

 

 

falling—

 

 

 

_Blink_

 

 

 

dark, light, dark—

 

 

 

_Blink_

 

 

 

a man standing in the corner, white hair, wrong—

 

 

 

_Blink_

 

 

 

nothing there, pressure on lips and eyes and chest—

 

 

 

_Blink_

 

 

 

Dawn. Late dawn, it was winter. February. Flat slightly too cold to be comfortable. Duvet kicked to the side. Bedroom. Alone.

Sherlock woke up slowly, letting his consciousness put itself back together. He needed to let it fully prepare itself in case it was shocked into doing something stupid. He let his focus shift to outside his room. Sounds: soft, routine. Kitchen. Something rattled, perhaps a plate. Smells: food cooking, though if left for much longer it would be burning. A fry up.

Most mornings the flat remained quiet. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would come up and do something domestic. This could be one of those times, but Sherlock refused to label the source of the sounds and smells. No assumptions, no conjecture. It was better to allow possibilities.

He finally made himself get up and put on a dressing gown. Padding down the hallway on silent feet, he paused at the half-open door to the kitchen. Looking in would solidify one possibility into reality, and destroy all the others. Sherlock would rather face that moment now, at his choosing, than have it forced upon him. He slid the door open.

John stood over the hob cracking eggs. He glanced up at Sherlock. “Morning,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well?”

Sherlock blinked, allowing this possibility to fall into place and cement itself before answering. “No. Nightmare.” He reached for the mug of coffee nearby. Sugar, so it had been placed there for him.

John was still focused on the eggs. “How much this time?”

“All of it. The whole stupid journey.”

Sherlock didn’t actually remember stepping across the threshold with John following him, a fact that frustrated him to no end. He remembered staring at the brass numbers on the door, and then he woke the next morning still in his clothes to find John back living, _breathing_ , alive in the flat. That was three years ago.

Since then, at least once a week, he dreamt about that place. Usually bits and pieces but they always ended with him failing his challenge and losing John again. He decided that it was a last reminder of Lord Grey as to who was really in charge. John had memories of that place as well, though not as sharp as Sherlock’s. It had made the explaining the nightmares easier, when John had finally wormed it out of him.

“Anything on today?” John asked.

“I doubt it. London’s been very quiet lately.”

“How dare it,” John said, with mock indignation.

Sherlock smirked as he walked into the sitting room. He noticed that John had been rubbing a spot on his lower back, an area that Sherlock knew had recently been in close contact with a switchblade. It should have hit his kidney and sent him instantly into shock, killing him. But it didn’t. Crucial millimetres had been spared, the doctors said. A miracle, they said. That sort of thing had been happening a lot; knives miraculously being turned aside, bullets mysteriously altering their course midflight. They both had scars to document all their near misses.

Sherlock walked past the mantelpiece, on which, along with the ubiquitous skull and skewered mail, sat a small Plexiglas box with two flower bundles in it. One was made up of forget-me-nots, pear blossoms, a marigold, and a snowdrop, tied together with ivy. The second was similar, substituting the marigold with a whitecedar branch, and the pear blossoms with white phlox. They remained as fresh as the day they had been given.

The violin lay on the table where Sherlock had left it last night. He idly plucked the strings, letting his mind wander. The random notes soon shaped themselves into a chord that echoed the sounds of life, of heartbeats and footfalls. Sherlock smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> The meanings of the flowers in Sherlock and John's 'corsages' I took from [Wikipedia's entry on the language of flowers.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Language_of_flowers) As if they could possibly get any manlier.
> 
> Sherlock's: forget-me-nots = true love; pear blossom = lasting friendship; marigold = pain and grief; snowdrop = consolation, hope; ivy = dependence, endurance.
> 
> John's: whitecedar (arborvitae) = everlasting friendship; white phlox = harmony, "our souls are united", "we think alike."


End file.
